I spent my last dollar on the crescent moon, carved my initials on its ivory sickle, the color of spoiled milk, and left it on your doorstep last night. Once she’s born, once she’s bigger, use it for the baby’s backyard seesaw. Forget about the moon we used to rhyme about, giddy with almost happiness. No more rash, moonlit love. Now that it’s gone, the tides will cease to spin, the oceans turning treacherous. Now when you look up, the stars mock the place where our moon was pinned to midnight like a brooch to black velvet, unblinking, unrepentant, glittery cold.
By Beth Sherman